In conformity with, the intention just declared, he turns his horse’s head towards a grand ombu—growing not far off—the same which, the day before, guided him back to his lost way—and riding on to it pulls up beneath its spreading branches. The other horse, following, stops too. But the man upon his back stays there, while the gaucho acts differently; dismounting, and attaching the bridles of both horses to a branch of the tree. Then he stretches himself along the earth, not to seek sleep or rest, but the better to give his thoughts to reflection, on that about which he has been speaking.
He has not been many minutes in his recumbent attitude before being aroused from it. With his ears so close to the ground, sounds are carried to him from afar, and one now reaching them causes him first to start into a sitting posture, and then stand upon his feet. It is but the trample of a horse, and looking in the direction whence it comes sees the animal itself, and its rider soon is seen, recognising both.
“Cypriano!” he mechanically exclaims, adding, “Pobrecito! He’s been impatient; anxious; too much to stay for my return, and now’s coming after.”
It is Cypriano, approaching from the direction of the house whence he has but lately started, and at great speed, urged on by the anxiety which oppresses him. But he is not heading for the ombu, instead, along the more direct path to the Indian town, which would take him past the tree at some three hundred yards’ distance.
He does not pass it, nevertheless. Before he has got half-way up the hill, Caspar, taking the bridle of his own horse from the branch, leaps into the saddle, and gallops down to meet him. The gaucho has a reason for not hailing him at a distance, or calling him to come under the ombu, till he first held speech with him.
“Caspar!” shouts the youth excitedly, soon as he catches sight of the other coming towards him. “What news? Oh? you’ve not found them! I see you haven’t!”
“Calm yourself, young master!” rejoins the gaucho, now close up to him; “I have found them—that is, one of them.”
“Only one—which?” half distractedly interrogates the youth.
“Your uncle—but, alas—”
“Dead—dead! I know it by the way you speak. But my cousin! Where is she? Still living? Say so, Caspar! Oh, say but that!”